


A Child of the Manor

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Broken Bones, Caretaking, Crying, Family Bonding, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Dick was a fully independent adult–physically, emotionally, legally. He was of drinking age. He had his own apartment. He paid bills. Sometimes he woke up with a weird pain in his neck from sleeping oddly. He wasn’t a kid anymore. And still all Bruce has to do was call himRichard Johnto make him full-body cringe.
Relationships: Bat Family & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 118
Kudos: 1396





	A Child of the Manor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DawnsEternalLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/gifts).



> This fulfills DawnsEternalLight's BatFam Christmas Stocking prompts of sick, misunderstanding, and injury. :) Merry Christmas, friend.

Dick was planning a jailbreak. Some might think it overly dramatic to dub one’s own childhood bedroom a prison, but Dick didn’t think so. He had been staring at the pinstripe walls for a full day at this point and had studied every remaining artifact and each sheened splat of sticky-hand residue still clinging to its ceiling. He was losing his mind.

It was time to leave. He hadn’t quite figured out _how_ yet, but assumed he would be able to make it up as he went.

That plan worked for a few minutes. Well, maybe “worked” was a bit strong. But he was on his feet. Er, foot. And out of bed. Dick hadn’t really thought ahead to where he would go once he was upright, but just having a different view of the room helped. Now he needed to get _out_ of the room.

The need for haste drove him, pushing him through each hop forward even as they grew less sure and more pained. He didn’t know how long he had before discovery, but the further he could get, the stronger his defense would be. Crossing the threshold into the hallway felt like a weight lifting from his chest, allowing him to breathe, even as he panted through the careful work to balance all weight and sensation off one leg. Only when Dick reached the top of the staircase and looked down at the path before him did doubt creep in. Had there always been that many stairs?

It was almost funny. Dick was a fully independent adult–physically, emotionally, legally. He was of drinking age. He had his own apartment. He paid bills. Sometimes he woke up with a weird pain in his neck from sleeping oddly. He wasn’t a kid anymore. And still all Bruce has to do was call him _Richard John_ to make him full-body cringe. 

Teeth bared in a tight grimace, Dick pivoted on the heel of his foot just enough to face his thunderous-looking guardian. “Oh hi, Bruce.”

“What are you doing out of bed?” Bruce’s jaw was clenched so hard Dick was afraid he was going to crack a tooth.

“I’m fine. How are you?” It was the height of stupidity to lean against the bannister and try to act casual, but apparently Dick had bad decisions down to the inch. He blamed the full-naming. It made him panic.

“You shouldn’t be up.” Bruce was already coming toward him, the newspaper he had been carrying tossed onto a side table and forgotten.

“Bru-uce.” Dick hated the whine in his own voice.

“You have a broken leg, Dick.”

“It’s only a little broken!”

That earned him a look copied straight from Alfred, and it made Dick wince.

“To bed,” Bruce ordered and reached for him.

“C’mon, B, I—”

“ _Bed_ , Richard.”

It was the full name again that made Dick’s teeth click shut. He bristled beneath the unfairness of it all. He was a grown man, it was his own leg, and it wasn’t like he had injured himself being reckless or careless. He had been chasing after a thug and had stepped in a pothole. Instead of twisting his ankle, his tibia had shattered, breaking with the sudden violence of an ESPN injury replay. Stupid, unexpected, unfair, but not his fault.

The injustice was what gathered and boiled in his chest as Bruce reversed the progress he had made down the hall. They were almost to his doorway again when Dick muttered, “I’m just going to get up again.”

What was Bruce going to do, handcuff him to the bed?

Dick yelped as Bruce bent suddenly and swung him up into his arms.

“Bruce! Wait, I was joking! Put me down! Stop, what are you doing?!” Dick squirmed only a little, terrified to be dropped or to put extra strain on Bruce’s patchwork back.

“Babyproofing,” Bruce responded drily as he carried Dick into the master bedroom.

Dick huffed in surprise and then in displeasure as he was placed carefully in the center of the bed. Bruce’s bed was a monster, a sprawling behemoth that could comfortably host a mid-sized orgy, a fact that the family could only joke about because it usually remained empty. The very size that made it a point of humor now worked to Dick’s detriment. There was no way he could feasibly crawl to the edge, not without causing significant pain to himself or noise that would bring a tattletale running.

“You have got to be kidding.”

Bruce’s shrug was unrepentant. “Thus far, I have shown restraint and not informed Alfred. It’s either this or make him sit in here with you. Is that what you want?”

“What? No. But Bruce, I’m dying in here.” Dick grimaced at the look on Bruce’s face and scrambled to recover. “Sorry, I just mean I’m losing my mind. I’m so bored. I broke my leg, not my neck.”

Bruce harrumphed. “Read a book. Take a nap. Watch a movie. I don’t care. But you are not to step a toe outside of this bed.”

“I already _did_ all that. What if—”

“I’m not arguing with you about this.” Bruce’s voice was firm. No, not wholly firm. Dick’s eyes narrowed as Bruce ran a harried hand through his hair. Maybe this was something he could use. But even as he opened his mouth to argue further, Bruce froze, then eyed him speculatively.

Dick was an adult. He was a police officer with a badge and a vigilante with sticks he whacked people with. He would not shiver, even if being eyed by Batman was enough to make anyone tremble with trepidation.

“Wait here,” Bruce ordered, then stalked out of the room.

“Where else would I go?” Dick muttered as he sank further into the ridiculously large mattress.

Bruce returned a few minutes later. From under his arm hung Damian. When Dick was a kid, he would go boneless with rage, willing every ounce of him to make Bruce’s life harder. He’d nearly done it again in the hallway earlier on pure instinct. Damian, though. Damian went tense and immovable, every muscle tight as stone when he was angry. He was stiff against Bruce’s side now, arms crossed tightly over his chest, legs curled into the fetal position. He looked like a boy-shaped valise Bruce had packed for a weekend trip.

“I can’t keep an eye on both of you,” Bruce said as he dropped Damian on the bed next to Dick. “So you’ll keep an eye on each other. Dick, Damian has a concussion. Make sure he rests and doesn’t overexert himself. Damian, your brilliant older brother keeps trying to walk on his broken leg. Keep him in bed. _Neither_ of you are to leave this room, is that understood?”

He paused, and when no reply was forthcoming, Bruce’s frown deepened. “I said, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Their responses were equally reluctant. Dick told himself he only spoke up to ease the strain at the corner of Bruce’s eyes. Whatever was going on was more than Dick’s stupid leg. It had to be. Maybe he could find out from his little brother.

Satisfied that he had contained two problems in one bed, Bruce left. Dick shifted against the arranged pillows, then turned his attention to Damian.

“Want to tell me what happened?” he prompted.

Damian sat with his arms still crossed and his face turned away. “No.”

“Guess I gotta ask Bruce then.” Dick braced his hands with a grunt and made to scoot himself across the covers. A thin arm threw itself back like a bar across his chest.

“You promised Father you wouldn’t.”

“I also promised I’d take care of your concussion. Can’t do that if I don’t know how it happened.” Dick wrapped gentle fingers around Damian’s wrist and lowered his arm. “Will you look at me at least?”

The black eye wasn’t much of a surprise, but it still hurt to see. Dick reached out to ghost a thumb over the swelled skin, but dropped his hand instead when Damian leaned back.

“That looks like it hurt. Did B leave you an ice pack?”

Damian lifted the white bag wordlessly, then placed it over his eye. Dick settled back against his pillows and Damian reluctantly followed suit.

“Sparring?” Dick guessed. It was still daylight, so it couldn’t have been an accident on patrol, and Damian possessed a preternatural grace that precluded most foul-ups. He lifted an eyebrow as Damian shook his head.

“Titus and I were playing Bear Charge,” Damian muttered. It was a game he had created where his goliath of a dog charged him and Damian either leapt out of the way or tackled Titus to the ground to wrestle. It was terrifying to watch and they both loved it. Physical as the game was, though, it rarely resulted in injury.

Dick didn’t press. Applying force to Damian did very little. He was an oyster jealously guarding pearls, not a tube of toothpaste to be squeezed. Better to wait, to let him offer his prize of his own accord.

Instead, Dick squirmed again and chose not to stop the grimace that rippled across his face. Damian’s posture changed, an alertness slipping up his spine.

“The pillow,” Dick explained, gesturing to the line of cushions under his leg. “The one under my calf.”

Damian uncrossed his arms and crawled down the bed. At Dick’s instruction, he shifted the pillow further up to support his brother’s knee. Dick sighed with relief as the pressure eased.

“Thanks,” he murmured and held out an arm.

Instead of coming to him, Damian hesitated.

Dick cocked his head. “Dames?”

This time, Damian did come, barrelling forward on hands and knees to cannonball into Dick’s stomach. Dick _oof_ ed softly, but his arms wrapped around his little brother on instinct as Damian buried his face in Dick’s shirt.

Dick’s unease grew louder, whispers shifting to a rising murmur. Something was definitely wrong. He could feel it in the hard, winged planes of Damian’s shoulders and the tightness of his grip around Dick. It wasn’t that Damian wasn’t ever physically affectionate. He was. But hugs were things he tolerated and rarely gave himself, and he didn’t cling. Dick stayed still for a heartbeat, then another, before smoothing one hand against Damian’s back and another against his hair.

“You okay?” Dick murmured as he began to stroke his brother’s hair. Damian had cropped his hair short on the sides, shearing away the curls Dick had loved, but even short, his hair was still unbelievably soft. He hoped the touch would ease whatever was bothering Damian; regardless, Dick could already feel himself relax as he combed through the scrubby stripe of curls down the center of Damian’s skull.

“Will you go in the Pit?” The question was muffled by Dick’s midsection, but it was still clear enough to be unmistakable.

Dick’s fingers stilled. “What?”

Damian did not lift his head, preferring to continue speaking into Dick’s shirt. “Grandfather will let you if you ask. I know he will. He respects you as an opponent, and it would benefit him to have you in his debt.”

“Damian, what are you talking about?” Dick nudged his shoulder to try to see his brother’s face, but Damian’s grip only tightened.

“I know what’s going on, Grayson. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

“Well, that makes one of us. Damian, _look_ at me.” Dick pushed again, and this time Damian let go and let himself be rolled onto his back, his head braced against Dick’s good leg.

“Sweetheart.” Dick pressed the warm heel of his palm against Damian’s cheek and let the tear cool his skin. “Talk to me.”

“I know you’re sick,” Damian whispered.

Dick blinked. “Am I?”

Except for the single tear that had run down Dick’s hand, Damian had yet to cry. He looked perilously close now, which also meant he looked close to murder. Dick pressed a thumb to the deep furrow in Damian’s forehead. Damian jerked away.

“Don’t play dumb,” Damian spat. “I’m not stupid.”

“No, but I might be,” Dick admitted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your leg.” Damian sniffed furiously and scrubbed at his face with one sleeve. “I’m no fool. I did my research. Spontaneous, traumatic fractures such as the one you sustained are a common indicator of bone cancer. Father has been out of sorts since your injury, far more than usual. I know he has run tests. And the internet said this is what it must be.”

Oh. _Oh._ It wasn’t funny, so Dick didn’t know why he had to choke back a helpless laugh. Poor Damian.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dick began, but Damian was already batting his hand away.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not, I’m not, I promise.” Dick ached as he smoothed a tuft of hair off Damian’s forehead. “Listen to me now, and I want you to believe me. I am not dying. I do not have cancer. I was stupid and broke my leg, and that’s all this is.”

“Richard,” Damian hiccuped, “the human leg does not break spontaneously.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Dick agreed gently. “Not unless that leg already has microfractures from years of wear and tear.”

Dick reached for the ice pack and repositioned it on Damian’s swollen face. “The field is rough on a body, no matter how many precautions we take. I stick a lot of landings and have for years. It was bound to catch up with me.”

“But Father,” Damian whispered. 

“Bruce ran tests. You know he wouldn’t leave this sort of thing to chance.” Dick slouched down against the headboard and wrapped one arm around his brother. “Scans confirmed the microfractures. And the full labs will come back in a week, but preliminary testing says I’m fine. Bedbound and stir-crazy, but fine. I swear, Dames. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Damian blinked rapidly as he nodded, then rolled again and pressed his face into Dick’s stomach to hide his tears. Dick wondered how long he had stewed in his fear. He wondered if his word was enough to lay this to rest. Well, it would have to be, at least until the test came in.

Eventually, Damian stopped crying. Whether he truly believed Dick or not, he seemed to at least trust that Dick believed what he was saying, and that was enough to set aside his worries.

Alfred brought lunch and they ate together, shoulder to shoulder in the gargantuan bed. They had just set aside their empty trays when Bruce returned once more. Dick sat up straighter. Cass was in Bruce’s arms, curled against his chest. She had fuzzy socks on her feet and a box of tissues in her lap. Dick winced at the sight of her face. She had sunk low into her hooded sweatshirt, glaring at the world at large through puffed eyelids like one of those teenage owls Tim liked to laugh at online.

“Is she sick?” Dick asked even as Damian recoiled.

“Allergies.” For all his voice rumbled, Bruce was gentle as he placed Cass on the bed next to Dick.

Cass grumbled and reached for the edge of the bed. Immediately, but with no real force, Bruce swatted her hand.

“No.” He didn’t sound as stoically Bruce as Dick was accustomed to. He rarely was with Cass, but his voice hummed with tension, fraying the edges. “You’re going to stay here and rest. I’m done pulling you down from the rafters or out of cupboards.”

Bruce stretched to the end of the bed and grabbed the decorative throw. He wrapped it snugly around Cassandra’s shoulders, pausing only to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Stay, princess.” Bruce straightened, then paused, gaze snagging on Damian’s also puffy eyes. “Everything okay?”

Dick nodded, and Bruce left with their lunch trays.

“So, uh, allergies?” Dick asked. “I didn’t know. Like, pollen or…?”

Cass burrowed deeper into the blanket and glared at him. Or not at _him_ , exactly, but all of creation. Dick and Damian exchanged uncertain looks.

Finally, Dick lifted a pack of cards for Cass to see. “Uno?”

Uno was deemed acceptable, though Cass had to stop frequently to blow her nose. Her normal laugh was distorted by the allergies into a honking sort of croak, enough to make both boys laugh in response even as they grumblingly withstood the deluge of Skips and Draw-Fours she rained down upon them. She played one-handed, the other holding Damian’s ice pack against one swollen eye.

At some point, Alfred stopped by to clean up the mound of tissues and distribute more blankets. Cass added two more to her nest, while the rest were spread across the bed. The ice pack was refreshed and returned to Damian, and Cass was outfitted with a velcroed frozen gel mask in the shape of a domino. She looked like a cartoon version of a vigilante and Dick took great amusement from poking the gel and feeling it goosh.

The card playing could only go on so long. Soon Damian and Cass were both squinting wearily, so Dick packed up the cards and pulled a book off of Bruce’s end table. He had just read the title page when its owner reappeared. With him came a stumbling, blinking Tim. Bruce guided him with a firm hand on his shoulder. Based on his shuffling, stumbling steps, that hand might have been the only thing keeping Tim upright.

“Everything okay?” Dick asked. Damian frowned and subtly tried to make himself wider to take up more room on the bed. Dick flicked his leg. 

“Tell Dick the last time you slept.” The order was flat and featureless other than its depth. A bad sign.

Tim turned hooded eyes toward the bed slowly, with the empty intentionality of a possessed victim in a horror movie. He stared at Dick for a long moment. Then shrugged.

“He doesn’t know,” Bruce confirmed. His lips were pursed. A very bad sign.

“I was researching…” Tim mumbled, but his voice trailed off before he could say what.

Dick grimaced. Their nightlife made everyone’s relationship with sleep a little erratic, but Tim’s was the most notorious. He was known for falling down the rabbit hole to chase after a lead or elusive fact or—once, memorably—a never-ending list of mysterious cruise ship deaths and disappearances that snared his attention for days. It wasn’t that Tim was bad at resting. He was bad at turning off his own obsession once a topic caught his attention.

“Into bed.” Bruce’s voice was hard but his touch gentle as he lifted Tim up onto the bed next to Dick.

Damian squawked in protest but stifled himself at a look from Bruce. Cass blew her nose from within her blanket wrap and shifted to make room.

“Make him stay,” Bruce huffed. “Make him sleep.”

He had carried in a blanket draped over one shoulder that he unfolded and draped over Tim. And then he was gone.

Tim sank down into the mattress with a sigh. Dick paused, wondering if they needed to hold off on the book, but when he looked down at his brother, Tim was already asleep. Dick shrugged at the other two, who shrugged back and then settled in again.

“Mrs. Bantry was dreaming. Her sweet peas had just taken a First at the flower show,” Dick read.

It was a good pick, though Dick had chosen at random. The Dame’s mysteries were convoluted enough to keep Damian entertained but soft enough not to be gruesome. Marple has a wicked sense of humor, and Dick liked her better than the flashier Poirot. As Cass had gotten in the habit of watching Masterpiece with Alfred, there were fewer explanations needed than might be expected. And Agatha Christie was a favorite of Bruce’s so when Dick read, it was in their father’s voice.

He read. They listened. Tim slept. And the clock ticked on.

They had gotten a good way through the book and into the meat of the plot, as the bodies dropped and the mystery grew thicker and more complicated, when the next interruption came. At this point, Dick was almost expecting it. Almost. 

The room’s attention snagged as Jason entered the room, dressed in street clothes, shuffling, and red-eyed. Alone. Dick with his standard intuition could tell Jason was in a bad way, so he could only imagine what Cass was picking up. Whatever it was, it was enough to make her set aside her tissue box and begin to gather her blankets to make room.

Jason waved her off and threw himself across the foot of the bed instead. The mattress was too plush to move much, but Dick still grimaced as his leg was jostled. Tim didn’t stir. Jason lay on his back, one arm thrown across his face to hide his eyes. They waited, unsure of what to do.

“Bruce said you were reading a book?” Jason finally asked. He sounded normal except for a hint of muffled stuffiness, like a person might get during a cold or after a good cry.

“Agatha Christie. _Body in the Library_ ,” Dick confirmed. 

Jason grunted. The choice seemed to meet his approval, or at least not merit his disapproval, because he gestured for Dick to continue. Dick gave him one last searching look, then bent his head to his task. Beside him, Damian hesitated, then crawled down to the end of the bed to drop a blanket across Jason’s legs before hurrying back up to Dick’s side. 

Dick read the entire book, pausing only to sip at his water or nibble at the dried fruit snacks Alfred left. Jason never shared what had been bothering him, but when Alfred the Cat jumped onto the bed, he buried his face in the cat’s side and stayed there until their furry visitor decided to leave again. At some point, Tim woke, rolling over to blink sleepily at a bed that was fuller than it had been when he nodded off. Dick didn’t think he had heard the story before—unlike Jason, who added commentary _sotto voce_ as his mood improved—but Tim seemed to enjoy following along even without the context of the early chapters. 

No one left. Alfred delivered dinner to them on trays and stayed himself to share the meal before disappearing to clean up. They all shuffled positions on the massive mattress several times—all but Dick, who remained the sole fixture in the center of the bed—but no one bothered to leave. It was like the bed was their raft, adrift in a vast and unending sea of hardwood, or perhaps merely their haven in a world that seemed too difficult to deal with at present.

They watched a movie. Damian and Cass both dozed off at one point, only to wake when Jason ran a finger up the arch of Dick’s good foot, making him yelp. They played more Uno and Go Fish and Bull. They watched a show, then another, then whatever late-night talk show host happened to be on and doing the least annoying bit.

They were waiting, though no one said so out loud.

Finally, late into the night, Bruce returned to the room. His steps were slow and a fresh bandage peeked out from the collar of his t-shirt. Alfred had one hand on his back, guiding rather than supporting, a small comfort. Around Dick, the others stirred, but no moved to leave.

“In you go,” Alfred murmured with one last gentle push.

There was room. Of course there was room. They could have fit the Justice League and the current core of the Titans and still had space leftover. Still, Dick noticed that Bruce found an excuse to nudge each of them aside as he hauled his stiff joints onto the bed—a gentle touch to Cass’s foot, a squeeze of Tim’s knee, a caress of Jason’s head, a tap on Damian’s leg, a pause to check the pillow under Dick’s leg.

And for all there was miles of room, once Bruce lay down with a weary sigh, they all settled in around him, drifting like leaves in a slow tidepool to the center of the vortex.

Dick turned off the TV and pulled the quilt he had snagged up to his chin with a contented sigh. He could hear the others breathing in the dark; deep, contented, tired exhales that already were beginning to even out. He could smell Alfred’s detergent from the linens, Bruce’s cologne in the air, Damian’s shampoo, Cass’s bodywash.

Tomorrow, hell would break anew. Damian would chafe under lingering concussion protocols, and Tim would lose himself in another research project. Gotham would scream and Bruce and Jason would answer. Cass would follow whatever instinct drove her and wedge herself into another inaccessible corner of the Manor, and Dick would likely try another break for freedom.

Dick knew this, as surely as he knew his own name. But as he closed his eyes, he was content to let tomorrow’s problems be tomorrow’s problems. Today was confined to this room, to this bed.

Dick was an adult. A fully independent, self-reliant, mature adult. But he had never been so happy to be a child of the Manor.


End file.
